I've been in this house before. There are faces in the windows mocking me. They say "you can't hold onto nothing. No, this never meant a thing," and I guess that they're right. They've been watching the whole time.
So, I'll ignore what I'm given, and there's nothing you can say. With how transparent I've been, life's been slipping through my fists.
There's nothing here for me except another way to tell myself I'm empty. Now I'm emptier than ever. Hearts lay in heaps on the floor next to our clothes. If you listen you can hear them. They'll cough and sputter a song.
(here's a startling realization: I could've been anyone)
Oh, what tangled ropes we've woven to hang our crooked necks by. I thought I had gathered all the pieces and I was stitched up, but a seam's not what it seems (or so it seems.)
So, if you tug at me, here's just what you'll find: a crumpled mass of leaves that I like to call my guts and a tiny ball of dirt that used to be my heart.
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